And Jericho Burned: Toke Lobo & The Pack

by MJ Compton

  But it wasn’t enough. She knew that living for someone else would never be enough. A soul needed more, a very difficult lesson she’d learned when the people on whom she’d focused had turned away, leaving her with only an aching emptiness.

  “If you hadn’t met me, what would you want more than anything in the world?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You still don’t understand. I need to be the best thing that ever happens to you.”

  “You are.” She cupped his cheek. “You’re the best and most important thing that has ever happened to me. You accept me the way I am, in all my air-headed glory.”

  “You’re not air-headed. Restin would never listen to or follow bad advice.”

  There it was again, the faintest of withdrawals.

  “Does that bother you? That Restin likes my ideas?”

  His denial was too quick. “Of course not. It means he’s accepted you because you’ve proven yourself worthy. Why would having a worthy mate bother me?”

  She shook her head. “There’s something else. I always thought that if I ever got married, I’d be able to talk to my husband, but you won’t talk. And sometimes, I feel as if I could read your mind if you didn’t work so hard to block me out.”

  She thought his pupils widened a little, although it was so hard to tell in his deep, coffee-colored eyes.

  “You distract me.” He brushed a knuckle against her breast.

  “You sound happy about that.”

  “I’m very happy about you. I’ll be even happier when we’re home, in Loup Garou.” He lowered his mouth, but she turned her head, and his lips grazed her temple.

  She took a stab. “Won’t you miss all the excitement of being a secret agent?”

  He went perfectly still, telling her she’d hit . . . something. Maybe not a bulls-eye, but at least a nerve.

  “No, not at all. I hate touring.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  His eyes took on a distant glaze, as if he were looking into the future or some other place she couldn’t follow. “I hate being on the road, but playing . . . well, playing keeps me sane.”

  And Restin had told him he was out of the band.

  No wonder he seemed sad and preoccupied. By putting her first, he’d lost his anchor.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  She brushed his stubbled cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Nothing? I wish I had something I cared that much about.”

  “I want to see my wife.”

  The stone-faced guard who’d opened the gate to New Sinai aimed his weapon at Stoker’s chest. “Wait here.” Only a well-armed man would not be intimidated by Stoker’s glaring scowl. He called in Stoker’s request on a static-filled walky-talky.

  Hank stood behind Stoker, arms folded across his chest, doing his best Stoker intimidation imitation. As much as Stoker hated leaving Lucy with only Luke and Ethan watching her, he needed Hank with him more.

  New Sinai was strangely silent, almost as if the piked logs of the stockade fence were holding their breath. The scent of death had ripened and was now spiced with the tang of fear.

  A moment later, Butler and Lucy’s sister crossed the yard. Butler firmly grasped Michelle’s upper arm, as if he were dragging her. As they neared the gate, Stoker noted that Michelle’s eyes were red-rimmed.

  Hank muttered an obscenity.

  “Where’s Lucy?” Stoker demanded, throwing a growl behind the words.

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” Butler replied. His knuckles whitened on Michele’s arm.

  “I don’t believe you,” Stoker snapped.

  “She’s indisposed,” Michelle said in a soft voice. “She doesn’t want you to see her like this.”

  As a lie, it wasn’t bad.

  “If she’s sick, she needs me,” he insisted. “It’s part of that for better or worse thing.”

  “She’s too sick,” Butler cut off whatever Michelle had been about to say.

  Michelle’s eyes widened, as she gazed at Hank. Stoker was positive he read fear there, a terror that magnified the stench pouring off every one of the lying scat eaters.

  His ears might not be as sensitive as Hank’s, but there was no mistaking the irregular gallop of a heart mainlining on adrenaline.

  Good. Fear was a weapon easily manipulated.

  Stoker decided he’d pushed them far enough. Narrowing his eyes, he glared at Michelle. “Give my wife a message.” It wasn’t a request. “Tell her I’m concerned about her and that I’ll be back. Tell her I will take care of her.”

  He shifted his gaze from Michelle to Butler. “Remind her that a wife leaves her family and cleaves to her husband.”

  Luke had given him that line, culled from his research on the Jericho project, a little something that might have tremendous meaning to those inside the fence.

  Butler’s lips thinned. White ridges framed his mouth.

  “I’ll be back,” Stoker continued. “And the next time I return, I won’t leave without my wife.”

  “Pretty good acting,” Hank said as they climbed into his truck.

  Stoker snarled.

  “Shh.” Hank unrolled the window and cocked his head.

  Michelle’s voice, breaking with near-hysteria, floated on the cool spring air. “Now what?”

  The sound of flesh smacking flesh was the only reply they heard.

  Hank would have leapt from the truck if Stoker hadn’t grabbed his arm. Hitting women was an abomination. Hank would make Butler pay, but he’d have to get in line behind Stoker.

  Michelle’s sobs faded, Stoker losing the sound before Hank did. “A door closed,” Hank said. “She’s inside, still crying.”

  Stoker wasn’t feeling too fond of his sister-in-law. If not for her, Lucy wouldn’t be in the mess she was in.

  On the other hand, if Michelle hadn’t summoned Lucy to this God forsaken corner of Idaho, he might never have found her.

  “Now what?” Hank repeated Michelle’s question, his hands beating a restless tattoo against the steering wheel.

  Stoker didn’t like leaving Michelle in Butler’s clutches any more than Hank did. He could easily leave Idaho that very afternoon. He had his mate, he was off the task force, and out of the band: but there was the bigger picture to consider–the needs of the pack. “We have a recording session to attend.”

  Lucy’s hair was still damp from her shower. She crossed the room and slid her arms around Stoker’s waist. Her cheek rested against his chest as he pulled her closer. The scent of spring flowers rose from her hair, as if her shampoo contained a meadow. He let the fragrance curl inside him, dispelling the stench of death still clinging to his nostrils.

  “Michelle?” she asked in a low voice.

  Stoker didn’t cushion the words. “Butler hit her.”

  Lucy flinched.

  He tightened his embrace and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Butler said you were indisposed, that you didn’t want to see me.”

  Restin interrupted. “Anything else?”

  For a moment, Stoker had forgotten he was in the room.

  “They’re afraid,” he said. “The scent of their fear nearly overwhelms the stench of Danby.”

  Lucy made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a gag.

  He kissed her scalp. “My guess is they think Lucy was dragged off by a wolf, just as we suspected.”

  “How could they believe differently?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest. Her breath warmed him beneath his shirt. “They saw Hank. They must have found the holes.”

  “Excellent.” Restin’s blue eyes gleamed with unholy satisfaction. “We’re going to turn this to our advantage. Good
job on the follow-up, Stoker.”

  Stoker never hated Restin more than he did at that moment. “You’re the alpha of your damned task force,” he snarled. “You should have thought of it.”

  “Me?” Restin shook his head, his nearly black curls swirling around his shoulders. “I didn’t know you’d told them you’d be back. Success is in the details. You did well.”

  He didn’t want to be told he’d done well. He wanted the nightmare to be over. He wanted to take his bride home and begin their life together. He wanted Lucy to make him smile again. Until she’d come into his life, he’d almost forgotten how.

  Besides, doing well wasn’t a delta thing to do. The only things he wanted to do well were Lucy and his music.

  Lucy stared at the equipment in the recording studio. There had to be thousands of dollars worth of electronics, yet Stoker and the others seemed perfectly at home in the jungle of gadgets.

  The road crew started setting up, but Restin stopped them. “A cappella today, boys.”

  Her throat tightened. She wasn’t a singer. She didn’t even sing in the shower and only occasionally with the car radio. Yet Restin insisted that her voice be the one to taunt Randy.

  She never should have opened her big mouth.

  The roadie who’d tended her injury handed her a set of headphones. She looked at Stoker for direction. He nodded, his lips grim, his glare foreboding. She slipped them on then fidgeted while the roadie adjusted the fit.

  “What am I supposed to do?” She couldn’t hear a thing.

  “You don’t need to shout.” Restin’s voice came through the headset, startling her.

  Stoker grabbed her uninjured hand and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” he mouthed.

  She wished she could believe him. There was something about the complete lack of sound that made her skin crawl, almost as if she had claustrophobia of the ears.

  Restin’s disembodied voice startled her again. “Sing into the microphone, Lucy.”

  “Okay.” She had no idea if she whispered or shouted.

  She cleared her throat. Stoker pressed her fingers again. Reassurance and strength traveled from his hand into hers.

  “Any time now.” Restin sounded impatient.

  She squelched the urge to stick out her tongue.

  Stoker leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. Warmth rippled through her. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her sister. He’d promised. And if she knew nothing else about him, she knew his honor ran deep and true.

  “Lucy.” Restin’s tinny, mechanical voice interrupted her moment of peace.

  Stoker kept her hand in his, as if lending her stage presence. She closed her eyes and let the remembered refrain play through her mind once before attempting to sing. Performing in front of professionals was awkward. Embarrassing. But Stoker’s touch lent her the courage she needed.

  She wasn’t sure she had the melody quite right, but for Restin’s purposes, it was close enough.

  “Joshua fought the Battle of Jericho, and the walls came tumbling down.”

  A moment later her eyes flew open as a technician played back her take. Not as bad as she’d thought, even if Miranda Lambert had nothing to worry about.

  “Perfect,” Restin declared.

  Lucy whipped off the headphones. “Now what?”

  “Now we make a loop–the same take repeated several times–then we’ll enhance it,” Restin said, as he entered the small glass-enclosed booth.

  “Enhance it?”

  Restin smiled a little mysteriously. “You’ll see. Or hear.”

  Stoker shook his head. “Lucy’s not going anywhere near New Sinai again.”

  Restin frowned. “I thought we’d settled this. I need pack status to pull this off. I need as many betas, gammas, and deltas as I can get, which means no one is available to stay with her. She’ll be safe. We’ll all be there, ready to protect her.”

  “I need to be there,” Lucy added. “To reassure Michelle when you rescue her.”

  If possible, Stoker seemed even grouchier. If looks could kill, Restin would be on the floor, gasping his last.

  “It’s settled then,” Restin said, his tone firm. “Tomorrow morning, right before dawn. Just like Jericho.”

  Restin shooed them out of the studio, saying he needed to work on enhancing Lucy’s track, but Stoker suspected the band was really going to begin laying the tracks for “Full Moon Lady.”

  He flexed his fingers, but his left hand still ached. Even if Restin relented and allowed him to finish this gig, he wouldn’t be able to play. Fate had a funny way of biting him in the shank.

  Stoker borrowed the keys to Hank’s truck and whisked Lucy out of the studio. She needed clothes, especially underwear. He hated getting slapped in the face with damp lingerie every time he tried to take a shower.

  His bad mood worsened when she tried to use a credit card to pay for her purchases. He growled, not caring if he created a scene. Lucy bit her lip and didn’t argue with him until they reached the privacy of the truck.

  “What was that about?”

  “I can provide for my mate.”

  “I never said you couldn’t,” she snapped. “But I don’t expect you to buy my clothes.”

  “Get used to it,” he snapped back. “I’m cutting up your credit cards when we get back to the motel.”

  “I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

  “Don’t push me, Lucy.” His temper simmered. “So far, it’s been a lousy day. I don’t need grief from you, too.”

  Lucy crossed her arms and glared at him. “Just because you’re in Restin’s dog house doesn’t mean you can crank on me.”

  Stoker inhaled deeply and focused on settling himself. The new moon should have calmed him. “Credit cards can be traced, so we only use cash.”

  Lucy exhaled. “Okay. Was that so hard?”

  Not as hard as he was in his jeans. “Are you going to question everything?”

  “Yup.” She didn’t back down.

  “Don’t push me, woman.”

  She sighed. “Look. I know you’re mad at Restin, you don’t want me involved in his Operation Jericho, and you don’t want to be kicked out of the band. I don’t blame you. Music is your whole life.”

  “Not any more.” He jammed the key into the ignition and twisted it. Savagely.

  “So be patient with me. I have a big learning curve here.”

  “I can’t!” he shouted, startling even himself.

  Lucy stared at him. Tears filmed her eyes. She turned away from him and stared out the window.

  “The moon starts waxing tomorrow,” he tried to explain, angry with himself for hurting her tender feelings.

  “Right. Werewolf PMS.”

  “Right.” How did he explain? “You insult me and my ability to take care of you when you try to pay for basics such as food, shelter, clothes. Maybe I’m only a delta male, but I am capable of caring for my mate.”

  “Who said you weren’t?” Her tone was definitely sullen.

  “You did, when you pulled out that slice of plastic.” He was tired. Exhausted.

  “Well, excuse me.”

  “Are you crying?” If she were crying, he didn’t know what he’d do. Maybe someday, he’d be immune to her tears, but not today.

  “No.”

  But he heard the tears. Smelled them. “Stop crying,” he ordered. Maybe he didn’t have status within the pack, but he was the male here. When had he lost control of everything?

  She uttered an obscenity.

  The word triggered his rage. “Damn it, Lucy! Can’t I at least get some support from my mate?”

  She sniffed, but said nothing.

  He would give anything to hear her babble right
then. “Stop crying.”

  “Would you rather I screamed?”

  “Yes.” Screaming would be an honest emotion, one he was better able to cope with, but not in Wal-Mart’s parking lot. Tears were too subtle, too undermining. He wanted rage from her, rage to counter his own frustration.